


It's Not That Bad

by VitaLupum



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Asthma, Gen, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 16:04:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/838750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VitaLupum/pseuds/VitaLupum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I had an asthma attack, and my headcanon is that Sniper is asthmatic. So this happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Not That Bad

Erm, g'day. My, er, name's Sniper, and I'm here to, uh, talk to yer all – 'willingly', yeah, sure, mate, doc knows I hate talkin' to strangers – about asthma. Medic thought it might be a good idea t'run some kinda public awareness crap about the condition, yer know, 'cause a lotta people think it's not as bad as asthmatics say 'n' that they're makin' it up, 'n' so I'm here, at this table, with my nebuliser thing.

So, er, I guess I'll start tellin' yer about how it feels when you have an asthma attack. I don' really know how'ta start, so I'm sorry if it's kinda stumblin' 'n' awkward, like.

It feels, basically… well,  _basically_ , like someone's grippin' yer throat. Someone's got a clothes peg, an' clipped it, snap, just above yer lungs. Nah, that's not right. Maybe as if they're pinchin' it so it's  _almost_  shut. Yer can still get that tiny crappy bit of air int'ya lungs, but to be honest it kinda feels like someone's grippin' them too. Like someone put 'em in a box, right, and they can't fill beyond what the box lets 'em.

So, like I guess yer would if someone had holda yer windpipe and put yer lungs in a box, yer panic. And this panicking doesn't make it better. Panickin' makes yer take little shallow breaths, which means yer getting less oxygen, so yer p-panic more, so… yer know. Ya hunch yer shoulders, and that  _r-really_  doesn't help. Ya b-b-bending yer spine, and s-so it's even harder… t-to get air t'yer lungs, and…

S-sorry, let me… t-t-take this 'n' I… I'll c-c-c-carry on…

…

That's better. Sorry, g-guys.

An' so everyone crowds ya. Askin' are ya alright. An' yer like, do I fuckin' look a bit like I'm alright? I'm hunched the fuck over, puffin' and pantin' like I've run a fuckin' marathon clear across the bush, and yer askin' if I'm okay? An' all ya want 'em to do is back the fuck off, an' so yer can breathe. But they won't. One of 'em is guaranteed to try an' put an arm around yer, an' that is gonna flip yer right out 'cause it feels like they're trynna squeeze the remainin' breath outta yer.

So… lucky yer got one'a these, right?

This is called an inhaler, or a nebuliser, as Medic says. But he's German, so, he could be bloody crackers for all yer know. Ya know, he really  _is_.

Anyway, this bit at the top's called the chamber. I'm gonna basically tell ya it's like a little gun of chemicals that – and all my info is from the doc here, so if it's totally nuts, don't blame me – opens yer airways up 'cause asthma makes 'em all close up a bit. Makes sense to me, but eh. An' yer press it, and it shoots these chemicals into yer mouth, an' then ya start breathin' again. Bang.

What happens when ya  _don't_  have it?

What's it like, hangin' from someone's arm waitin' desperately waitin' for someone to untie the string that's squeezin' yer lungs, feelin' the pain of simply  _breathin_ ' until ya just want to lay down an' die if it means never doin' this again?

It's pretty bad, yeh.

An' don't think it stops when you've had the nebuliser, neither. After, when yer sittin' there shaking, every scratchin', wheezin' breath lettin' in just a little more oxygen than before, the pain stays. The dull ache that echoes up yer spine from hunchin' yer shoulders (oh yeah, they hurt like fuck too). Yer ribs feel like someone's been playin' 'em as a xylophone, 'cept with a sledgehammer. Splittin' headache, sore throat – it's like you've had the flu, 'cept it's been an' gone inside an hour. For hours ya can be sittin' there, waitin' fer the pain to go, with someone – a teacher, yer dad, a mate – lookin' at yer with disdain and tellin' yer it ain't that bad.

First attack I ever had was in the schoolyard, at about nine. I was runnin' across the field, chasin' a wallaby that'd wandered into the yard before the teachers could come and get us all away from the poor creature. I didn't sort of notice at first. Just, ya know, thought I'd gone breathless 'cause'a runnin'? Then I stopped, and it got worse and worse, 'til when the first teacher caught up with me I sounded like when ya jump on an accordion (how do I know? I fuckin'  _hate_  accordions). In the end, they carried me inside an' phoned my dad. He was disappointed, naturally, but yer all seem t'know about  _that_.

An', er, I guess that's it. Next time y'see someone with asthma, don't tell 'em it ain't that bad. 'cause it might be me, and I'll bury yer.


End file.
